


Things That Move Below

by Palpalou



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (as a kink), M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Relationship, References to Lovecraft, Situational Humiliation, Tentacle Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26461366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palpalou/pseuds/Palpalou
Summary: Henry Collins suffers a strange accident while getting rid of something entangled in the Erebus' propeller. Francis and James get a closer look.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, captain francis crozier/tentacle monster, commander james fitzjames/tentacle monster
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	Things That Move Below

Erebus had been dragging more than it should for a few days now.

James had disregarded the first few complaints. The expedition had just entered the labyrinth of ice, and Sir John and he had counted on them losing a few knots at that time even from the very start when they were drawing up calculations back in London.

It was only when he sat down to compare their recent rate of progress with older reports and prognostications that the discrepancy became indisputable. It had been gradual, but they had indeed progressed slower than they should have over the last few days, and were slowing down more still.

James did not appreciate having to present the findings to Sir John with Crozier glowering at him from across the table. But, of course, the man had come aboard early that morning specifically to complain that Erebus was lagging behind Terror, so there was no way he would have had the decency to let a ship’s captain and his commander sort out the situation. Not when he had the opportunity to sit pettily vindicated in the corner of the room.

Later, he heard him mumble “one entire day wasted” to the Terror’s Ice Master Thomas Blanky, who’d come over with him, when he passed them by on the deck with Master Collins in tow. It was impossible to know whether he had intended James to catch his remark or not.

James bit back a reminder about Disko Bay which would have made it obvious he had overheard and climbed the stairs to the open deck with a bit of a stomp.

Sir John always encouraged his men to find the silver lining in any situation, and James thought he would appreciate the fact a small crowd had gathered to see Mr Collins suit up for his expedition below the ship. Were it not for a persistent cold, their captain might well have been standing with them right now.

It really was a marvel of technology, this suit, allowing them to check and repair the ship in the middle of the sea, when a dozen years earlier they would have needed to cajole her into the closest haven, which would have been rather a challenge that far up north, and put her in dry dock before even having a definite idea of her troubles. Nowadays, man moved below as easily as fish did and witnessed marvels no intelligent eye had seen before.

Still, James had once tried to imagine how it could be, standing suspended against the outside of the hull, with the heavy copper and bronze helmet and weighted boots, and discovered he felt a visceral vertigo at the very thought.

Even as a few sailors helped Mr Collins don his carapace following his meticulous specifications, James couldn’t help but surreptitiously checking the ropes which would hold the swing-like seat for signs of fraying. If just one snapped, the unfortunate man would sink all the way down to the bottom of the ocean with no hope of rescue.

“It’s probably the propeller”, Crozier, who had apparently followed them, was telling the second master, and James felt a pinch of irritation. “If something got entangled in it, it would explain a lowered rate of spinning. But check for anything else while you’re down there anyway.”

In the little crowd, James spotted the tall shape of Dr Stanley making his way to them.

“Are you ready, Mr Collins?”

His answer was a jerky nod. James didn’t mind it; he had noticed the man grew quiet before his dives.

“Then good luck.”

They helped him screw on his helmet, then he was raised above the railing and lowered smoothly and cautiously. James watched as he was slowly swallowed by the water. He could see his shape, a wavering drop of beige among hues of blue, for a moment longer, until it disappeared below the curve of the hull.

Then there was only the lapping of the water at the ship’s belly, the squeaking of the air pump, and of course the constant background noise of a full-manned ship, a familiar orchestra which James could tune out at will. James wondered whether Mr Collins could hear any of it from the other side of the hull. If he strained his ear, he himself fancied he could discern the sounds of the man working his way along the metal skin of Erebus.

A few minutes went by. Some of the spectating sailors left to spend their downtime in the warmth below, or to prepare for their shifts, others stayed, talking quietly among themselves. Francis Crozier was standing at attention a bare arm’s length away from him, but he was staring into space with a disagreeable frown. In any case, James wouldn’t have initiated a conversation. They were all vigilant for signals from Mr Collins.

The wind had picked up slightly, after days of sunny if bitingly cold weather, and James pulled up the collar of his cape. But the swaying of the line wasn’t due to the wind.

It thwacked the railing once, twice, three times, then didn’t stop.

After a second of surprise, the men who’d been charged with pulling up Mr Collins started heaving.

“Not too fast, men!” James cautioned. Mr Collins mustn’t be dislodged from his perch. Then he bent over the railing, trying to see the diver. Crozier’s shoulder bumped against his as he did the same.

“There!” cried a ship’s boy, pointing frenetically down. Then he overreached and started tipping over the railing and Crozier and James barely managed to catch him.

By the time they had set him back on his feet, Henry Collins was lying on the deck, Dr Stanley above him. The lead weights he carried on a harness had already been discarded and they were just taking his helmet off. The man was shaking, mumbling incoherently. When he got closer, James realised his eyes were rolled back so far only the sclera showed.

“Hold his head. Try to get his mouth open”, said Dr Stanley.

One of the sailors produced forth his leather belt, and they managed to slip it into the mouth and pry the jaw open long enough for the doctor to shake out a few amber-coloured drops. Mr Collins spluttered but didn’t spit it out.

“Keep holding his head. He will calm soon. Get him out of the suit if you can, bring him down immediately so he can warm up.”

Dr Stanley kept his blood cold in a crisis. It was a precious gift, although it came with a dour disposition the rest of the time. His manner could also seem disquieting sometimes to the less hardened. Some of the sailors looked uncertainly between the man still spasming on the floor and Dr Stanley closing his bag and preparing to walk off.

James raised his voice. “Mr Young”, he said to the whip-thin boy who had nearly gone overboard. “Go down with Dr Stanley and help prepare a bed in the infirmary.” He nodded at two of the men kneeling by Mr Collins’ head. “You two, get rid of his boots and carry him down. Get his warmest dry clothes and change him entirely once you’re there if Dr Stanley tells you you can.” Spotting at last an officer’s face in the crowd, he continued. “Mr Des Voeux, ensure everyone goes back to their duties.”

There was a chorus of “yessirs”.

He turned back to Crozier and was surprised to find him kneeling by Mr Collins, peering at him closely even as the men worked around him to prepare the man to be moved. He had grown quieter at last, although he was producing disquieting stuttering sounds along the way of “tek-kelil, tekeli-l”.

“I imagine you will want to go back to your ship, Francis? We still have a few hours of daylight left to make progress, even if Mr Collins hasn’t managed to get rid of whatever was slowing us down.”

“Not with this weather” Crozier huffed, standing up with a push of the hand against his knee. James looked up, and indeed, the sky was dark with sudden heavy clouds, the sails clapping dangerously in the wind. In the little time it would take to gather up the rest of Francis’ team and lower a shallop to the water, the trip could grow dangerous. The small boat could capsize under a stronger wave or – James had heard this story – get caught between two masses of ice and crushed to atoms.

“…then we’ll have a guest tonight”, James said with what he hoped was a pleasant smile, but Crozier didn’t answer, walking off in the direction of the hatchway. James started calculating whom he could move around to make space for Crozier and his men. He wondered whether he could get away with having them all bed down in the officer’s mess, but probably not. Officer’s privilege was to be upheld.

***

Diner was a dreary affair, the mood brought low by Mr Collins’ unfortunate accident, even if he was now sleeping peacefully in the infirmary, Dr Stanley having been granted permission to keep him sedated until the following day to give him time to recover. Even Mr Wall’s soup was slightly oversalted. Still, not everything was dark. Consensus was that Mr Collins might well have had time to get rid of whatever had been tangled in the propeller, if Crozier’s theory was correct, meaning they would be able to resume with full speed as early as tomorrow, and Dundy had, gracefully enough, accepted to take Mr Collins’ empty cabin for the night. A lieutenant’s cabin wasn’t too bad for a visiting captain.

Later in the evening, when Sir John and the other officers retired for the night, James and Crozier found themselves face to face again, standing outside the wardroom in the yellow light of the oil lamps. It brought out a hint of Russian gold in the man’s hair, James noticed.

Crozier’s voice cut through the silence.

“What do you think happened to Mr Collins?”

James frowned. It was so obvious nobody had even thought to mention it around the table. “The suit wasn’t properly closed and water started flooding in around the helmet. He was obviously suffering from some extreme form of traumatic hypothermia.”

Francis huffed, and James knew he didn’t imagine the derisive tone in his next sentence. “There was a cut along the suit’s collar. Not quite on the seam. Clean, not a tear.”

James shook his head, blinked. “Certainly you cannot mean…”

“So clean it could have been made with a knife.” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “While on the subject, I’ll be bedding down in the infirmary tonight. No need to inform Lieutenant Le Vesconte, or anyone else.” He turned sharply on his heels.

*******

James found he could not sleep.

The weather hadn’t abated with nightfall and the gusts of wind lashed his small porthole by turns with sea spray and rain. The ship was in no danger, but the elemental agitation combined with his own unquiet thoughts had him tossing and turning in his sheets.

Eventually he rose from his narrow bed, stuffing himself quickly back into his trousers and gansey. A walk would take the edge off his aimless tension.

The ship, with her coal-fuelled heart, was never cold, but the air was lukewarm at best at this hour of the night, the men either sound asleep in their hammocks or up on the deck swaddled in their warmest clothes for the middle watch.

James kept thinking back to what Crozier had said. He wanted to disregard his suggestion as unfounded speculation. The Second Master did not have the kind of personality which sparked murderous intent, in James’ opinion, and there had been no warning signs, no unexplained accidents which would hint at moral degeneration among the members of the crew.

But even besides, Mr Collins’ atypical reaction to the hypothermia lingered on James’ mind. He had had a brief talk with Dr Stanley before the evening meal, who had seemed unfazed about the mystery of the unjustified seizure, talking about the illnesses that sometimes touched a man’s mind. Although James was not unfamiliar with the physical reactions fear could bring out in a man, Mr Collins’ had been extreme.

Niggling at a corner of his mind, there was also a memory from when he was peering at the sea for the man, right before scrambling to catch David Young. There had been something strange, he remembered. What was it? Something about the way the water moved. For an instant, he thought he had seen it boil.

So maybe it was no surprise his feet led him, without really a conscious decision on his part, to the infirmary door.

He kept thinking about Crozier himself, as well. He was a dour, disagreeable fellow, James had found, very far from the man depicted in the stories from Sir James Clark Ross’ expedition in the papers, always looking for the worst in any situation and in others.

Still, James had endeared himself to many a dour, disagreeable man with time, drink and a few stories. Crozier’s bitterness was a more malignant sort. And yet, James could not help admiring the experienced sailor, the arctic veteran and the scientist which shone at times through the layer of grit. Maybe this made Crozier’s disdain all the more biting. He had not missed the implication in the few words they had exchanged earlier that James had not taken good care of Henry Collins, as a superior should. James resented the idea that Crozier may think he could influence his behaviour, but he resented even more to be thought a careless leader of men. 

A low light shone through the louvres of the infirmary door, which meant Crozier must still be up.

He slid the door open, knocking softly at the same time.

The first thing to hit him was the smell. A humid, mildewy tang permeated the air, overpowering the familiar sawdust and camphor of the infirmary, and he wrinkled his nose.

Only after did he notice the noise, faint enough that the door had stifled it. Wet, slippery sounds like the slide of skin on wet skin and James nearly turned back with a stuttered apology, but of course it absolutely could _not_ be -

Henry Collins lay on one of the two sick beds, clammy and pale except for two fever-red spots high on his cheeks, hair sticking to his brow in strands as if someone had been brushed his skin with ink. He was still deeply asleep, unmoving except for the slightly too rapid rise and fall of his chest.

But his mouth was wide open around long, oil-dark filaments spilling messily on the white bedclothes like flower stems bulging out of the too-tight neck of a vase. As he looked, the unconscious man gave a gurgling retch, pushing even more of them out, and James would have cried out from sheer shock if stupefaction hadn’t frozen his breath in his lungs.

They were of varying width, both from one to the other and along their length, some stems thinner than a finger, others more like two or three grouped as one, like the plump sand snakes James had seen in Egypt.

But not all the sounds came from Collins. James’ eyes followed a dark trail down the bed, to the floor where the filaments gathered in a sort of slowly-pulsing nexus. The vines – or the tentacles, for they reminded James of a monstrous octopus’ elongated arms, were gathered around, and nearly entirely covering, Francis Crozier.

He was on his back, one hand clenching at the blankets he had half dragged off Henry Collins as he fell. He probably had gotten up to check on him when – whatever this was – had started, and been caught unawares. His other hand was bound against his back by several of the creature’s thicker coils. James could not even have said whether it was animal or plant. It was like nothing he knew could exist in heaven and earth.

The mass of squirming vines hid most of Crozier’s core but, from what he could perceive of the slow yet smooth movements, of the direction of the tentacles, James thought, feeling faint-headed, that they must be plunging – deeply – _into_ him. James could see the white cotton of the long shirt he must have kept on for the night, twisted around his shoulders, nearly transparent with how sodden it was from the creature’s fluids. Only one of the thick woollen socks they all wore in their boots, even on the ship, had stayed on, the other foot bare, flexing against the wooden floorboards. James thought it looked strangely dainty, with its pale skin and soft-pink nails.

Then Crozier’s flushed face turned towards James. His eyes, glassy, slipped over him at first, then snapped back as he seemed to blink back awake, face contorting around a gag of entwined tentacles which hid the lower part of his face and curled up behind his ears in his dishevelled, sweaty hair.

James swallowed, feeling like he had been caught out. Would Crozier think he had been standing there for long, watching him silently? He should have gone for Dr Stanley, or Mr Goodsir at the very least, immediately, and yet, he took a step forward instead, opened his stupid mouth as if they were meeting anew and he trying to make his first stilted overtures to the formidably glowering Francis Crozier once more.

“Francis, are you–“

The look of deep, ferocious humiliation on Francis’ face made the words die on his tongue, throat closing sympathetically. He stuttered, searching for his next word, and as he floundered, he saw Francis’ eyes skip, snap to a point close to the floorboard on his left.

Before he even had the time to look down, he felt something slither up around the ankle of his boots– much faster than he had seen any of the vines move up until now, and he could have kicked himself for his foolish assumption that he was safe because Crozier had been close to Collins when he had been caught. He tried to dislodge it with a kick, but it stuck fast to the soft leather, like an octopus could, except he had seen no suckers and it was so cold James felt it even through the thick layers of material. Then, with impossible strength, it pulled.

James lost his balance and caught himself on his elbows with a cry of pain. Then he was being dragged back to the teeming knot of tentacles despite his uncoordinated attempt to grab on to something.

This close, the watery, grassy smell of the creature was so strong it felt like it was coating his tongue. The noises, as well, were much more affecting. The wet sliding sounds of the vines twisting together and – he felt himself blushing at the thought despite the seriousness of the situation – moving around and inside Francis, had a near-physiological effect on him.

Several tentacles separated from the mass to wrap around him despite his struggling, pressing his arms against his chest down to the elbows when he tried to grab them and twist them away from him, pulling him slowly into the writhing knot.

He had a moment to be surprised those more central vines were nearly warm before they slithered up around his limbs, inching their way in spirals under his sleeves.

They were rubbery, nearly gelatinous, when he tried to grab at them with the limited motion he had, too slippery to hold when not actively sticking to him through a biological mechanism he did not understand.

As more tentacles had joined the ones around James, the lattice had grown less dense around Francis and now James could see triangles of white flesh, blinding against the slightly-iridescent black. His eyes couldn’t help falling down to the apex of the Irishman’s legs, which were kept sprawled by more than a dozen tentacles digging in the soft flesh of the thighs. The swollen, glistening tip of a fat ruby-red cock peaked from between the vines which crowded around his waist before disappearing in the darkness below.

He jerked his eyes back up. Francis was looking straight at him, the miserable flush on his face telling James he knew what he’d seen–what he couldn’t help but look at.

Up until now, except the one still holding firmly unto his leg, the vines had stayed above James’ waist, feeling their way up along his stomach and back until they reappeared from under his collar, tugging his cravat looser with gradual motions. Suddenly, he felt a tentacle slip under his trousers through the space between two buttons. It touched flesh, making him jerk at the ticklish sensation, and several others followed, the buttons popping off as if under the edge of a razor-sharp blade, and James suddenly understood what had sliced so cleanly through Mr Collins’ thick suit. But it seemed the thing had no interest in making them bleed.

His trousers slipped down several inches all at once, exposing his own prick which, to his great shame, was already stiffening, despite all reason, at the rough handling. James could feel them slither inquisitively around, one poking at his navel, three others rubbing up and down his swelling cock. He couldn’t help a shocked moan, the sensation wholly alien, his hips twitching – whether to escape or push into the feeling, he couldn’t quite tell. In any case, it didn’t matter. The tentacles followed his bobbing cock, only pressing against it more firmly. There was no way to escape their touch. He imagined Crozier had been brought to heel in the same manner.

“God–“, he panted, and it was only then he realised he still could call for help.

For one moment, he let himself dread discovery in such a humiliating position. He was flushed and wet, his exposed groin unmistakably hard now and straining under the soft touch of the oily feelers. And yet, there was no question he owed it, to Henry Collins at the very least, to try. The door had slid shut behind him, and his scuffling and scraping hadn’t been enough to break through the exhausted slumber of well-worked sailors, but shouting would no doubt have people come running.

A particularly slim tentacle nudged its tapered, slippery end gently but firmly against the needle’s eye at the top his swollen, sensitive cockhead and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to hold back a squeal, but he steeled himself and, taking in as much air as he could, he opened his mouth wide.

« H– ! »

Before he could produce more than a breath, three tentacles shot into his mouth, stopped only at the place where his throat started behind the swell of his tongue. He gagged around the intrusion, tears welling in his eye at the sudden pain in the soft, delicate tissue at the entrance of his gullet. Fortunately, the vines didn’t push further in, although he could feel them pulse disquietingly against his forcefully flattened tongue and the inside of his cheek. They tasted like water and salt.

The other vines tightened around his waist and dragged him the last few feet until he found himself pressed against Francis. The tentacles were even warmer here, but Francis ran hotter still. He groaned, jerked his head when James’ bony knee dug into his stomach. The tentacles were rearranging themselves around them, mashing them closer together, more wrapping around James’ back and thighs, directing them to straddle Francis’ belly. The tip of his hefty cock prodded tantalisingly at the sensitive swell behind James’ balls before slipping away. James’ own was pressed between Francis’ belly and himself.

He could feel the tapered feeler which had busied itself licking his slit earlier on wriggle between them to take back its position. Then he felt it press a bit longer, a bit stronger against the tip of his cock, and from one moment to the next it had slipped inside.

A burst of sensation shot up his spine like a spark of electricity. He looked down, unable to believe what he had felt, and managed to contort himself enough to see the little vine bunching up against the slit. It should have torn, he thought, but there was only intense pleasure at the impossible penetration. Tears pooled at the corner of his eye nevertheless, as if wrung out from the excess of sensation, when it wriggled, trying to slip farther inside and thankfully unable to.

There must not have been more than half an inch inside, but it stayed lodged there, so that his slightest movement felt magnified. He tried to stay as still as he could, bolted in place through his mouth and his cock.

But he knew things would not stop there. Dexterous tendrils were pushing his trousers down even more, as far as they could go against the ones holding him around the knees, and trying to spread his legs at the same time, even though the trousers kept them from widening too far. His attempt to keep his knees together hadn’t even seemed to register with the creature, the vines overpowering him easily. He breathed faster at the thought of what was to come, trying to brace himself for pain, and felt like he could not get enough air around the blockage at the entrance of his throat, which pulsed forward when he pushed at it with his tongue and had him choking briefly before he could control the reflex.

He realised he had clenched his eyes tightly shut when he felt a dry touch against his cheek.

It was Francis’ free hand.

There was obvious tension in his brow, sweat running down his temples, tentacles still gagging him, pressing into his cheeks like a horse’s bite, but he was looking straight into James’ eyes.

A thumb swiped under his eyes, where he had let out a bit of salt water, firm but not ungentle. Then, Francis’ hand left his face – James felt a jolt of loss – to slip down his side, avoiding the tentacles, and grabbed James’ fingers. His range of motion was limited, his arms still bound tightly to his sides from the elbow to the wrist, but Francis twisted his hips sideways with a huff and brought James’ fingers to the place between his legs. James, shocked, tried to jerk back, but Francis didn’t let go, although he didn’t force him closer either. And James calmed, and tried to pay attention to what Francis wanted him to understand.

He could feel the vines, definitely flesh-warm here, and dripping wet, roiling in and out of Francis, slow but relentless. There must have been at least half a dozen of them, some twisting around each other like mating snakes, others following their own rhythm.

Guided along by Francis’ solid grip on his wrist, he followed the vine lightly, trying not to agitate them, until he felt Francis’ rim under his fingertips, the skin more giving than the rubbery tentacles, hot to the touch. It felt puffy and sensitive, straining yet still trying to flex away from his soft prodding.

James gasped at how unbelievably wide Francis must be spread, maybe twice his own wrist’s width.

But what wetness he could feel was thick and slippery, the viscous secretion produced by the tentacles. There was no blood, and no tearing. That was what Francis wanted him to know, lest he hurt himself unnecessarily, trying to fight back.

He looked back up, where Francis was still watching him, steadfast.

He felt warmth flooding his chest and up into his face, and it took him a moment to recognise it as the burn of humiliation.

How shameful, that he had to be calmed like a child, helped along by Crozier who snubbed him at any opportunity and had been bearing the brunt of the assault, on his own, for who knew how long. How Crozier must scoff inside.

James didn’t know how much of his thoughts showed on his face, but, as if the other man had just recalled the same thing, his clear gaze grew troubled, then freezing cold, his eyes creasing into slits under a heavy frown. They didn’t like each other, James had to remember, and he tried to conjure the memory of the sneer Crozier had worn even just earlier that day when James had been relating his calculations to Sir John, because otherwise he would want to hide his face against Francis’ shoulder and wait out the storm in the safety of his warm animal smell.

But Crozier had stayed too still too long. Right as James was about to look away, his control faltered and his eyes rolled back, eyelids fluttering as he twisted around some unseen movement from the creature, and James was alone when he felt a first tentacle nudging along his cleft.

He panted, once, twice, then relaxed with an effort of will, and the finger-wide length slipped inside. The tendril grew quickly thicker, but it was slippery enough that the only ache was from the muscles being pried apart before they had a chance to adapt.

On the table above them, he heard a retching sound, and saw from the corner of his eye that the omphalic stem which linked them to Henry Collins was swaying with added mass.

Quickly enough, he felt more tentacles crawling over and between both Crozier and him, chilly at first where they touched his skin, but quickly warming.

Although James’ shirt and white wool gansey were soaked through and pushed up as far as they could go to just under his arms, the long planes of his back and thighs exposed to the lukewarm temperature of the room, he didn’t feel cold at all. In fact, he realised as the tentacles he was cradling in his mouth pulsed and petted at the inside of his cheek, vision swimming on the edges, he was fever-hot, and luxuriated in it, and pressed down against the furnace he felt under him, even as Crozier was lost to his own torment.

The other man couldn’t hold back his groans and whimpers anymore, even though they were barely audible above the wet sounds of the creature’s redoubled efforts.

It seemed Crozier was paying the price for the resistance he had shown earlier. A ragged huff of breath, a stifled grunt would mark the apex of a push which had Crozier’s jaw clenching around his gag, and James sometimes felt as if he could feel the belly under him move, as if the tentacles were plunging so deep and powerfully he could feel them through the skin.

James ought to have been horrified, he knew, but the heavy scent of the room was making his thoughts sluggish, had him rubbing against the movement as much as he could. The one tentacle inside his arse slithered across his prostate and James arched his back reflexively, offering himself up to the rest of them he could feel crawling across his back and thighs, and they followed his lascivious invitation. James moaned, trashed a bit when he was spread by three sizable tendrils pushing in around each other, and sucked around the mouthful of tentacles in his mouth when they jolted down a bit further, as if called forward. As if they had felt he was ready for more, now.

He kept suckling at the smooth flesh even as they slithered down his throat, further than he could have thought possible without retching. It was a comfort to him, somehow, to focus on this pacifying sensation even as his arse was being stretched relentlessly. Each time he thought he had reached the limits of what he could take, he would feel the nudging, lapping sensation of one more tentacle at his rim and feel himself be forced wider.

The sensation was unlike anything he had ever known, the tendrils soft and slick like pointed tongues, but too smooth for it to be comparable and moving in a roiling, writhing way which reminded James of the way the sea broke and boiled around half-submerged rocks.

Distantly, he could hear the wet noises of the creature moving through its own slick, and the muted sliding sounds where his bare skin pressed directly against Francis’.

He had more room to manoeuvre that Francis, who was nearly completely bound by the tentacles, and a remote part in James thought Francis must have resisted much longer and harder before he gave in, but it didn’t matter. Very little mattered now outside the pleasure James felt slowly mounting in him, except for the fact he was able to shimmy his hips so his cock slipped through a gap between a bunch of entwined tentacles and James felt delicious pressure from both around and within. He ground himself against Francis in counterpoint to the ebb and flow of the thrusts which rocked the other man, and a spark of pleasure so strong it verged on pain crucified him at each apex, had him sobbing around the blockage in his throat, when the swollen, stuffed crown of his cock bumped against what must be the other man’s belly or thigh.

When James came, it didn’t feel so much like a release than a lurch, like his heart had skipped a beat, as he felt his cock twitch, stoppered still by the tendril, and the strange sensation of his come trickling out slowly along his length.

He gasped once, twice, realised he was trembling, that it had grown dark in the infirmary, the oil having run out in the one lamp he remembered was hung against the wall where the door was, the little light there was the diffuse white glow that heralded the coming dawn.

Francis, under him, was wheezing slightly on the end of each breath, his hair plastered to his face – pale except for two long blotches of red on his cheeks – by sweat, eyes still glazed over. He looked dangerously exhausted.

James blinked, feeling as if a dense, humid fog around his thoughts was suddenly lifting. The vines were still inside him, so deep he thought he could feel them moving in his guts, and pressing against his Adam's apple from the inside out in his throat.

He tried to pull away—but tentacles surged up around him and brought him back down forcefully, his right shoulder slamming painfully against the wooden floorboards in the process.

This time, he noticed when his vision grew hazy at the edges, swallowing reflexively around a sudden gush of fluid from the vines. The thrust which came then had him giving out a muffled wail.

He was arching lewdly into the next one.

***

Some time passed. James could not have said how much. The churning vines, navel-deep, moved him back and forth, his spent cock twitching with pleasure every so often even though it remained soft. From time to time, he felt Francis’ own still proud cock slip wetly against his ribs and the touch had him coughing out aberrant giggles into the mess of tangled vines in his throat.

His new position, sprawled half over Francis and half on the floor, had him awkwardly twisted at the waist and the neck. The discomfort did not register next to the fireworks lighting up his nervous system, but it meant his face was turned towards the door when a small, greyish shape squeezed through the crack.

It was the ship’s cat, James fuzzily recognised. A lazy, grizzled old sea wolf of a cat that spent more time lurking around the cookery on the lower deck than in the hold.

Despite the distance and the relative gloom, James saw the moment it caught sight of the creature. Its fur went up at once, pupils blooming wide in its pale yellow eyes. It crouched low, as if it was bowing to the aberration.

Then, with a snake-like undulation, it sprung.

James did not understand much about the silent chaos that ensued. The last thing he saw clearly was the cat catching a stray tendril under its font paws, and ripping it like a crêpe ribbon with its needle-sharp teeth.

The creature gave a sudden jerk which shook James a handful of inches off the floor and, all at once, it started uncoiling, flowing frantically away, from Francis and him. The cat was jumping everywhere, biting and clawing at anything it could catch. It scored James’ own back when it scrambled over him to try and get at the tentacles still crawling up the side of the cot, but he barely reacted, seizing around the sudden emptiness of his arse and throat, and the bright pain of the tiny tendril brusquely dislodging itself from his cockhead.

Behind him, he could hear Francis groan as he must feel the same violent liberation and, above him, wet gagging sounds as the cat had caught a more substantial grip of the creature and was slowly dragging it out of the sleeping man’s throat.

There was some more flailing, a long tentacle flailing over the side of the bed, then contracting back out of sight, then nothing.

Fagin jumped down noiselessly, carrying a dark, oily mass in its mouth. It would have looked like it had caught an ink-sodden sponge, if not for the tentacles trailing down like tattered streamers. It looked much smaller now, but James guessed the being could control its mass somehow. He shuddered and shirked the thought.

“Good kitten, Fagin”, he breathed out, surprised to hear his voice so wrecked. The cat threw him a suspicious look and trotted haughtily out of the room to eat its prey in peace.

James realised he was still sprawled half-naked and open on the floor of the infirmary. He breathed out once, twice, and sat up, wincing at the host of small hurts and discomforts which assailed him.

Now that the creature was gone, its permeating smell was rapidly growing fainter. The only trace it had ever been there was on the floorboards, splattered with the same oily liquid which was still trickling from his tender hole and which he could still taste on his tongue, with a few darker droplets where the creature had, for lack of a better word, bled.

He pulled down his shirt and wool jacket, and manoeuvred his underwear and trousers up gingerly. His cock was swollen at the head, and pained him slightly. The little hole at the top, which his foreskin didn’t quite cover, was reddish, still glistening with the creature’s slick and his own spend, still slightly more open than it should be, although less than it had been a moment before. James felt a twinge of arousal, and chose to believe it was a lingering effect of the creature’s intoxicating discharge. He noticed the floorboards had scratched his fingertips raw when he had scrambled against the pull of the tentacles.

He still was cold, the thick wool of his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his thighs, and the missing buttons meant his trousers held on precariously at best. Still, he felt slightly better, as if the shell of respectability, however flimsy, would protect the soft flesh inside until he had time and privacy to lick his wounds. It would have to wait until the evening, James thought, looking with dread at the pale light coming from outside. He may only have time to change into dry clothes before the middle watch eight bells.

On the bed, Mr Collins had started snoring softly.

Briefly, James entertained the thought of leaving for his cabin right away. Francis’ very presence at his back prickled at him like he was standing too close to a flame.

Then Crozier spoke up, voice raw in the silence. “We won’t ever speak of this.”

James nodded, and couldn't help but turn slightly, just enough to catch sight of the other man.

Crozier had gotten up as well, though he was still pale and was leaning against his own cot for support. He was holding himself slightly hunched forward, picking at a tear in the seam at the shoulder of his shirt. He glanced at James from the corner of his eye, and James was absurdly reminded of the squat ship’s cat and its predator's contempt.

He should leave now. He wanted to, and the other wanted him to, and yet, his sailor's pragmatism and a diffuse empathy he could not totally ignore held him back. The room was in a state. So was Francis. Would either of them be well-served if suspicions were -- aroused?

He nodded awkwardly at Francis’ shirt. “I can – lend you one of mine.”

Francis blinked. “What?” He looked down at where his fingers were still holding the sodden material away from himself. “Oh. Yes.” His mouth twisted before he added, as if it pained him, “If you would. Commander Fitzjames.” He would still not quite look James in the eyes.

James nodded again, glancing down, then away, then turning, only slightly unsteady, on his heels.

***

It was only a matter of a dozen of minutes to get to his cabin and change. Thankfully, Bridgens had recently replenished his closet and James had a clean spare for everything. His soiled clothes were hanged on the chair at his desk, hopefully to dry cleanly. He recognised his largest shirt, a slightly off-size birthday gift, which would have been too fine for everyday use otherwise, by feeling the decorative dark blue thread lining the bottom edge.

On the way back to the infirmary, James was vigilant to any noise which could have indicated the beginnings of a rousing among the sailors or the officers, but here, too, all was silent except for the low chorus of snuffles and snores, and James’ light thread did not disturb the stillness.

He hesitated at the door. Had he been long enough? He rasped his knuckles against the wood and Crozier, less pale now, slid it open, beckoning him in wordlessly.

There was a rag on the floor. James silently handed over the shirt and turned away, busying himself with pushing it around in circles with his foot, mopping up what slickness the floorboards hadn't already absorbed. He heard the splat of the old shirt falling to the floor, then the soft rustle of stiff cotton as Crozier slipped the new one over his head.

There was a slight musk in the air, which James did his best to ignore.

**Author's Note:**

> *detailed warnings  
> -Francis/James as in they despise each other (or do they?!) but there’s hints of a future relationship  
> -non-con as in tentacles & altered mental state of the sex pollen kind  
> -large insertion and (slight, tiny!) urethral sounding  
> -bottom James & bottom Francis (James might subconsciously yearn for Francis’ cock though)  
> \- animal(?) death/animal hunting animal(?)  
> -issuing a general Poor Henry Collins warning  
> ** the plump sand snakes James has seen in Egypt are Kenyan sand boas, if you’re interested! they’re chubby boys ^^
> 
> And, finally... thank you for reading... :3c


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